Riddle in the Seventh Inning

The scoreboard flickered—Yankees 4, Red Sox 2—but Marcus wasn't watching. His iPhone buzzed against the metal bench, a third notification in as many minutes. Sarah was texting him again. Her messages arrived like waves, each one pulling him further out to sea: *I need to see you. Please. We can fix this.*

He'd purchased the baseball ticket on impulse, seeking refuge in the mindless rhythm of the game. The crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the seventh-inning stretch—civilization's secular prayer. But even here, surrounded by twenty thousand strangers, he couldn't outrun the question she'd asked three days ago, the one that had cracked their marriage open like a flawed egg.

*Do you even know me anymore?*

The riddle hung between them, silent and merciless as the sphinx he'd seen in Egypt years ago—before Sarah, before the mortgage, before the life they'd built together on a foundation of unexamined assumptions. He'd stood before that ancient limestone creature, half-human, half-lion, and felt the weight of its patience. It had guarded its secrets for four thousand years. What was three decades of a marriage compared to that?

A foul ball arced toward their section. The crowd gasped as one collective organism. Marcus didn't move. The ball landed two rows ahead, retrieved by a teenager who held it aloft like a trophy, triumphant.

Marcus looked at his phone. The screen reflected his face—crow's-feep deepening at the corners, mouth set in lines he hadn't noticed forming. He typed *I'm coming home* before he could talk himself out of it, then deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted.

The truth was, he didn't know if he could answer her question. Didn't know if anyone truly knows another person, or if we're all just riddles to each other, half-human, half-animal, guarding the chambers of our hearts while demanding entrance to someone else's.

He stood up. The game continued behind him—innings stretching toward their inevitable conclusion. Marcus walked toward the concourse where water fountains murmured and children cried over spilled popcorn. He needed to hear her voice. Even if it was just another riddle. Even if sphinx-like, she offered only more questions.

His phone buzzed again. This time he answered.